the stars incline us, they do not bind us
by Watanabe Maya
Summary: Thirteen chapters of Takao and Midorima's relationship, from pinnacles to dire straits, moments torn and mended and built and broken – all of which are told in reverse. \\ TakaMido. Reverse Chronology. Oneshot.


Summary: _Thirteen chapters of Takao and Midorima's relationship, from pinnacles to dire straits, moments torn and mended and built and broken – all of which are told in reverse._

this was initially a struggle to come up with but as i kept going i found out that this was pretty fun to write. also... thank you very much ha-chan for helping me once again with this fic and offering your godly/expert advice!

i hope you all enjoy reading this just as much as i enjoyed writing this (especially _segment v_ huehuehue)

Up-down, down-up; you can read it both ways– the plot follows reverse chronology but either way it's written, the story will still make sense I think/i hope

(when i was experimenting with the layout/formatting it did a cool thing with what is now segment x i was so happy you'd think it's intentional but no it's pure coincidence hahaha)

disclaimer: i don't own kurobasu

additional a/n: i love takamido/midotaka too much it's not healthy huhu.

* * *

 **the stars incline us, they do not bind us**

 _(astra inclinant, sed non obligant)_

 **.**

 ** _xiii._**

He is twenty-three when he meets him again; twenty-three and young and naive with memories spurned over the past seven years - broken still, yet brimming with longing.

The taller boy pushes his spectacles up the bridge of his nose; his shoes today are leather - the water won't do them any good. He steels himself, eyeing the man briefly from behind glass with nothing more than a stern and cold gaze - hardly unfeeling. Mist falls over them from where Midorima stands, beneath the clouds that hung far, far up in sky; two umbrellas drenched in the dim glow of lampposts and showers of evening rain.

"Wh—"

 _Why?_ Midorima wants to ask, but clicks his tongue, biting back his words.

"Oh dear," the man chortles, his voice croaking and dim, before he smiles – apologetic and almost subdued – a shadow that pales to the radiance of what they are and what they've become, a mirror to the tribulations of their histories and what once has been.

(He never thought he'd see him again after all this time, after everything: after the anguish he'd felt and the pain he'd inflicted and the torture they'd gone through, together and apart. Not now – now, when everything between them has long since finished; now, when all things have been said and done.)

The water falls, droplets pitter-pattering on the pavement and splashing puddles at their feet.

"It's been a while, Shin-chan."

 **.**

 ** _xii._**

 _"_ _I must have loved you, at some point."_

Takao tells him five weeks later, after what seems like seventeen attempts of dialling and reaching the boy's voicemail. His words cut through the air like glass, hollow and frail, a shallow blade that grazes past his green hair, brushing his skin so brutally Midorima nearly bleeds.

 _"_ _But I need you to understand that I can't do this anymore."_

The boy mutters a few words more into receiver, but it's all muffled in his ears and lost to his senses; Midorima is left stunned, with a heart beating rapidly in the tight cage of his chest and blood like poison coursing mercilessly through his veins.

 _"I'm sorry,"_ he registers at last, and when the green-haired boy does not manage a response, Takao promptly hangs up. The phone resounds a prolonged beep; a dull tone nestled amidst the tape on his fingers and the palm of his left hand.

He swears he wouldn't cry, but before Midorima can realize it, the rain has already trickled torrents down his cheeks.

.

 ** _xi._**

Midorima claims to be all right when the Shūtoku team holds a reunion and his former teammates ask him about how he's been doing. Ōtsubo sits across Midorima, the hawk residing – a diagonal right – by his side. Someone passes them _Yebisu_ ; and though Takao doesn't bat him an eye, he makes sure to pour Midorima a glass.

The green-haired boy regards him stiffly and nods, silently offers a prompt but polite gesture of _thank you_ and _hello._ There isn't much else he can do, really – not that he wants to, anyway. Takao shifts and averts his gaze.

They're both too afraid to say it first.

The party continues and the team goes on with their merry-making, wolfing down bits and pieces of _tempura_ and _kani-maki_ rolls and _agedashi tofu._ The raven-haired boy is laughing, cackling even, at the half-drunk Miyaji who is busy doing impressions of the other members, while the shooting guard only watches and notes them quietly.

"You doing alright there?" his once-captain asks, and Midorima pretends to join in on their joyous celebration – plastering on what is a mixed expression between a tight-lipped smile and wry grin.

"Yes," he answers. _I'm happy,_ he reasons, and Midorima isn't sure who he's trying to convince more, be it the taller male or himself. "No need to worry."

(But his is a petty imitation of the boy he longs to be.)

(Perhaps Kise would have better hopes in replicating such form with his golden smiles and his _perfect copy_.)

Ōtsubo raises a skeptical eyebrow at his response.

( _Perhaps_.)

"Really, _senpai,"_ he insists, flashing out the little figurine which he's kept in his pocket - a wooden carving of a _tanuki,_ the day's lucky item – for emphasis. _"_ See _?_ I'm fine, _nanodayo_."

The next four years pass by them in silence.

.

 ** _x._**

He is nothing more than his ' _ex'_ now.

X, a mark which means…

 _To delete;_

 _To remove;_

 _To erase._

.

 ** _ix._**

Midorima doesn't do well with feelings.

Nineteen years into his existence and still, he has never been good at these things. (Come to think of it, really, he's never been good at a lot of things.) He doesn't want to have to deal with this turmoil of his emotions, the panic of not knowing how to express himself to channel ideas or put his thoughts into words. He never thought he'd feel this way either, with nothing more that he can do or can say, but still so much that he longs to express – to tell him, to convey.

"Takao," he chokes out, voice strained. He feels his chest tighten – _it's_ _constricting_ , he thinks – a heavy thorn lodged at the back of his throat so deep he struggles for air and finds it hard to breathe. "Takao, answer me."

Midorima is three knocks and a bell ring away from breaking down the door of the young Kazunari's apartment, and another two knocks short of breaking down in tears.

.

 ** _viii._**

"I'm always the one who's trying here. Why should it even matter?"

"Because it still bothers me."

"What—"

"Why did you leave me? Do you not love me anymore? Was I not good enough?"

"You know that's not…"

"Then tell me, Takao," Midorima pleads, seconds before the door is slammed in his wake, "why couldn't I be enough for you?"

.

 ** _vii._**

The happiness they went through was not worth the sadness he had to endure.

.

 ** _vi._**

They're flatmates now, Midorima says, though that's not entirely true. He lives on the west end and the other on the east.

But Takao spends too much time in the lounge of Midorima's room (and vice versa, if the green-haired _tsundere_ were to ever be honest – though he reasons that it's only because the shorter boy's living area is the more ideal spot to catch a strong _Wi-Fi_ signal enough to help speed up his downloads for research) that the entire floor is practically their shared space.

Living on his own, and independently at that, hasn't exactly been the easiest thing for the new adult who has recently turned eighteen.

It's difficult for Midorima to manage his schedule well enough to find time to do his own laundry, cook his own meals, all while juggling his course requirements for university. He doesn't have enough time for extra-curriculars, much less to go varsity. Hell, he can't even remember the last time he's shot or _held_ a basketball.

Sometimes, Midorima thinks fondly between quiet evenings and/or insomniac episodes he's spent alone in his flat, or on the rare occasions he has time to rest and go to sleep, he remembers his mother.

 _Shintarou,_ she would say as she cooed him a lullaby in the night. Her voice, when she speaks, was like a song to him. Midorima likes it – of that, he is certain – but decides when he wakes up to check horoscopes on _Oha Asa_ and brew his coffee and greet the golden boy a _good_ _morning_ every morning, that he likes the voice that calls him _Shin-chan_ just as much – _or maybe_ _more_ – if not even _better_.

 ** _._**

 ** _v._**

Takao kisses him underneath the stars.

(It's the night of their graduation and the now former point guard has stealthily stolen the keys to the building, dragging Midorima along to sneak into campus with an invitation to cuddle, admire the Tokyo skyline, and retrieve the diploma that he secretly pried off of the hands of a certain bespectacled boy earlier during the ceremony and has held for hostage unless the green-haired miracle agrees with him to come with.)

Midorima remembers the warmth – of their hands clasped together, their muddled breaths, their pressed lips, their bodies held close for the first time in a long time; figures lying on the concrete of the roof deck, splayed beneath the thick blanket of speckled stardust and interspersed constellations.

"Did you know," the hawk-eyed boy whispers, "that in the theory of reincarnation, people are born time and time again to be with their soulmates?"

"It is written in the stars, Takao," Midorima hums, voice lilting as he agrees. He faces the sky and smiles upon the galaxies. In this moment, they are lost in the universe, but Takao stops himself and takes the time to look at him – _really look at him_ – all shades of greens and golds and the brights of chartreuse.

"Then I guess if that's the case," the raven replies, gazing upon him with the coyest of smiles and the most knowing of grins, "I might've been born to meet _you_ , Shin-chan."

 ** _._**

 ** _iv._**

"Happy birthday," the team greets him by the staircase on the morning when he turns seventeen. They present him with a box of a _matcha_ cheesecake topped with a birthday greeting of _お誕生日おめでとう_ written in a chaotic display slovenly made with trails of _azuki_ red beans.

"Nothing but the best for our Ace-sama!"

(To be quite frank, it clearly _isn't_ the best, but it's the best that they could do and at least, for Midorima alone, he thinks, it is enough.)

"But wait... there's more!" Takao says eagerly, voice a tad bit chipper and even more enthusiastic. "You know what? I've got an even better present for you, Shin-chan."

"And what is that, Takao?"

"Me!" the hawk replies with a wink, and the rest of the team stifles a laugh. ( _God that was lame,_ Miyaji snorts, the noise muffled against his wrist, _someone hand me a pineapple for these cheesy dorks._ )

He means it as a joke and Midorima doesn't get it, but he loves him, so he laughs anyway.

 ** _._**

 ** _iii._**

It's not that he likes it or he hates it, Midorima realizes when his mind drifts to ponder on the rickshaw, it just so happened to be something that he doesn't really mind doing everyday.

He remembers stolen kisses between bustling crowds on cobblestone streets and dimly lit alleyways. Calloused fingers tangled up in the locks of his green hair. The thrum of their heartbeats like the beat of the basketball dribbling on a street yard court – one and the same, yet erratic in their rhythms.

Takao presses closer; his breath feels warm against the taller boy's not-quite-pale skin.

"Tell me, Shin-chan," a quiet voice asks, "you like me, don't you?"

Across the court, beyond the mark of the three-pointer line, Midorima lands another perfect shot through the hoop.

 ** _._**

 ** _ii._**

The boy is everything he is, everything he isn't, and everything he wishes he could be.

And he hates it. Everything.

The boy.

The inadequacy.

(Himself, most of all.)

 ** _._**

 ** _i._**

He is sixteen when the incident happens – sixteen and innocent and nearly done with his first term of high school, wading his way through the summer rain to get home from the gym in time for dinner.

"Oh dear," a voice says. "You're drenched. I've got an umbrella, here. Wanna share?"

"Thank you," he nods awkwardly. _Oha Asa_ never predicted this; Midorima clutches onto the day's lucky item, his darling _Kerosuke,_ who dangles precariously from the strap of his school-imposed sports bag.

"Takao Kazunari, nice to meet you," the boy introduces himself, offering to shake his hand.

He takes it. "Midorima Shintarou, charmed."

The boy turns to him and smiles. "Can I call you Shin-chan?" he asks and Midorima stills, caught in a whirlwind of emotions and hellos.

(He never expected for this to happen.)

But here he was, and here they are – a shared umbrella standing underneath the pouring rain, bathed by the lamplight and the feeble courage of their hearts.

 **.**

 **.**

* * *

the stargazing scene and consequent pick-up line courtesy of kazunari was inspired by one of the quotes from neon genesis evangelion

 **any and all reviews will be much appreciated and very much loved.**

thank you for reading! i love you all


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